Blades and Bones
by Umaril
Summary: Tale based on the mod "Dungeons of Ivellon" by L@zarus.
1. Prologue: Thievery

**Prologue: Thievery**

Galain was not one to thieve, but when he found himself in Countess Narina Carvain's Private Quarters, the opportunity of great wealth made him too curious to pass it up. He had served as a pathfinder in the War of the Red Diamond, a deeply religious war, and had ended up on the slightly more lawful side. He was only twenty then, but age had now crept up on him, and he was not quite the eager soldier he once was. The things he witnessed in those times made him vow never to steal again. He had broken that vow once or twice already, but he still liked to say he was still a righteous sort of man, not a paladin by any means but still... righteous.

Back to the present however. The draped silk curtains above the bed hid anyone who might think of attacking the elf; a magnificent piece of furniture it was, with it's huge oaken posts carved by master craftsmen into the shape of roaring Akaviri snakemen. The eagle of Bruma was embroidered onto the curtains, set on the usual guard cuirass yellow. A glance around the room suggested this woman was more than wealthy - she was ridiculously rich, huge tapestries dangled from the enormous wooden beams that spanned the length of the room. Akaviri blades hung on every wall, and one side of the room was dedicated to a large, mouth-watering collection of rare items, each with it's own display pedestal or box. Rings, amulets, swords, maces, precious stones... you name it - it was there.

However, one item caught his attention, not because it was the most dazzling of all items displayed, but because it was the most inconspicuous, battered-looking book there. A closer look revealed a title written in rather fancy handwriting; _The Legend of Ivellon _by Marcus Scribonia. The book's display was locked, but nothing a dagger wouldn't break. Sure enough, the lock prised open with little effort, and his dear stiletto came out undamaged. He then lifted the display cover and picked up the old weathered tome. It was a stupid thing to be so hasty, as the case could have been trapped or cursed. However, something was drawing him to that book; an overwhelming wave of curiosity had hit him - as though he was possessed by some evil spirit, egging the elf on.

Old and battered as the book had looked from the outside, the pages were undamaged and wholly intact. Reading through the book revealed the legend of a once prosperous keep and dungeon from the First Era, Ivellon, one of Alessia's earliest Prisons for her Ayleid captives. It was unknown whether the Alessians built it, or the early Nedics, or any other race for that matter. But what was speculated (by some) is that the dungeons and great keep held hordes upon hordes of treasure waiting to be discovered by some daring and intrepid adventurer. At the time, it remained legend, but the events which were about to unfold were to show the real truth as to what happened these dungeons and how they seemingly disappeared off the face of Mundus.


	2. Chapter One: An Unpleasant Visitor

**Chapter One: An Unpleasant Visitor**

A warm blast of welcoming air greeted Galain as he pushed open the rickety door of the Grey Mare. A storm was raging outside and most were in their homes, safe from the biting winds and freezing rain of Evening Star. A friendly-looking Nord woman stood behind the bar handing drinks to her regulars and a minstrel sat on a chair beside the fire, singing an old favourite of the common sell-sword - which Galain considered himself to be at this stage in time - travelling the province, seeking work wherever it would be found, though unlike most mercenaries, he tended not to work for the... less pleasant (or outright evil) costumers he might stumble on. He settled down at a table near the minstrel, welcoming the cosy glow of the fire as he began to gather his thoughts.

The day had brought many tidings that would bring him ever closer to discovering next major riddle of his quest to find the fabled dungeons of Ivellon. The news that Marcus Scribonia of Chorrol had died many years before had not surprised him, as the book was written over a century ago but he had found comfort in knowing that his ancestor, Casta, still lived and was probably asleep now not a hundred yards away in her own home. Speaking to her had revealed nothing, as she refused to speak of her great-grandfather to this strange elf, whose intentions were unknown to her and the community in the highland town of Chorrol. Galain knew he would have to resort to sneaking around and possible thievery once again if he was to find any more information on Marcus and his works.

As the clock struck nine, more and more townspeople entered the tavern and it was now bustling with people. They cheered and danced as the minstrel played a more common tune to the people of the Colovian Highlands. However, Galain eyes were on more than the lute which was being plucked by the singer in the corner next to him. A man in the opposite corner of the bar sat fingering a small pointed dagger. His face was hidden by a shadow cast from the black cloak over his head and the leather cuirass he wore was equally as black. A quiver and shortbow were slung on his back and a selection of dirks and stilettos hung from his guar hide girdle. A padded trouser was tucked behind knee-high boots and fingerless archers gauntlets gripped the dagger he twisted on the table at which he sat. The man caught the Wood Elf's eyes with a piercing red glare, and Galain knew at once that the man in the corner opposite him was a vampire.

Fearing a commotion, the elf didn't stir and waited for the creature to move first. He knew the vampire was after him, but for what reason he did not know. He felt a chill as the door swung open once again and a huge man entered the door. His rough leather jerkin and chainmail undershirt indicated he may have been a mercenary, and the torn and dirty woollen cloak pulled about him indicated he had travelled quite a distance. He scanned the room and sat at the nearest available seat, the one in front of Galain. The Elf saw the vampire retreat further into the shadows as he noticed the huge man. He pulled back his hood as he sat and revealed an untidy mass of black hair and an unkempt beard. A huge black crossbow was slung on his back and an ornate longsword hung at his waist.  
"I see the foul thing has made an impression on the townsfolk already." He said, when he noticed Galain glancing into the corner.  
"You know of it?" Asked Galain.  
"Yes, I've been following the thing for three weeks now, and yet he still has not figured the old priest." Chuckled the man. Changing his tone he said. "Ah, but I am forgetting my manners," The man pulled his hand from under his cloak and presented it to Galain. "Brother Ithroten of Julianos, more commonly known as Ithura the Witchunter since I left the chapels in search of a more... fulfilling life." The Wood Elf took it and introduced himself.  
"I am called Galain, lightfoot by some, and I did not get the name by chance; I served as a pathfinder in the War of the Red Diamond."  
"Good to meet you, Galain Lightfoot. It's nice to see a friendly face after weeks of travel in the wild. Now, forgetting the formalities, I have business to attend to. Care to tag along pathfinder? You may spill vampire blood yet, the night is still young..."  
"Do you perchance know why the creature is here?" The Elf asked in hushed tones, as the crowd in the tavern had begun to disintegrate.  
"I follow the undead regardless of their cause. He's of a fresh brood and his stealth skills are equalled by that of the common Nibenay boar." He chuckled again at his own joke as he walked for the door.

Galain was starting to like this holy man, his sarcastic and light-hearted manner was appealing to a man who spent weeks at a time wandering the countryside and muttering to himself as he went. He joined him outside without hesitation - eager to find what a vampire was doing in Chorrol, in the heart of town going about his business without a care.


End file.
